


would you lie with me?

by lavkha



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, ALSO THE CHARACTER DEATH ISNT FINAL, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Pandemics, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Soulmates, its a happy ending i promise ;__;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29930340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavkha/pseuds/lavkha
Summary: dream and george, a love that lasts through whatever the world throws at them.or: four times a global health crisis cuts their lives short, and one time it doesn't.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 32





	would you lie with me?

**Author's Note:**

> pls dont share this with any content creators! if dream or george state that they are uncomfortable with fanfiction i will immediately take this down. thanks so much!
> 
> title from chasing cars by snow patrol

ATHENS, GREECE - 430 BCE

george swore as the rain beat down his back. stupid weather, stupid plague, stupid nation. today was supposed to be the day they went away—steal away some boat and sail to cyprus. he and dream were supposed to spend the rest of their days wrapped up in a warm blanket of sand and kiss under the palm trees.

and then this stupid plague comes along.

fuck, he just wanted to wake up with dream as his pillow. he knew marriage would be too much to ask for, he knew even being open about it would be too much to ask for, but fuck, he just wanted dream. and then sparta shut down, and athens’ leader died, and by now his parents were sick and dream had to go fight in a war he never asked for.

the rain didn’t retreat until the next morning. george cringed at the stains the flooding left on the side of his house; haunting prints of dog paws on the stucco walls, battered floorboards and broken windows.

he could barely sigh without his heart falling down to his feet. dream would be gone in three nights. there was not enough time in the world to tell him—show him—how much he loved him.

“why do you have to fight for them, dream?”

his lover blinked. “i’m not. i’m fighting for us.”

george sighed and traced the edges of dream’s chiton. it suited him, a heavy hue of jade, matching his eyes. “but how? i know i sound like a child, but how? we are not them. we are us.”

“you’re not a child. you’re just… angry. don’t act like i’m not, too. i prefer your skin on mine, not those sweaty bulks of armor. and you know what i prefer to the spear…”

“dream,” george laughed, “you’re too much.”

“you love me.”

george froze.

“what? you love me.”

“i do.”

“there’s nothing to angst over. i’ll be home soon. wherever that may be—cyprus, athens, crete. you’re my home.”

he didn’t know how to respond. this conversation was becoming a tumor. he stood and paced by the window, staring out at the sea. in another world they’d be sailing out there now, skidding by islands in seconds, wrestling cloaks from their heads and tanning in the summer sun.

“i’ll save you a jug of wine from chios. your favorite—that sweet black one, the one i hate.”

“oh, george, you don’t have to do that. it’s so far away, i know those islands are so rainy, you really don’t have to.”

“no. i will.”

dream’s gaze softened and he rose to join his lover. he curled a palm around george’s shoulders and stroked him as he sobbed, hooking his chin over his arms, raising a hand up to his curls. they stood there, stuck in the embrace, until a gull squawked and shocked them both. dream cupped george’s face with both hands and kissed him.

“you know i will, dream.”

“i know. i know.”

dream was shipped out to sparta the next week. george fulfilled his promise, despite the horrid weather, and picked up a kylix of chian wine. he never drew a single sip from the jug and forbade anyone else from doing so. he said he was waiting for dream to return; it would be the most marvelous of victory parties, the pinnacle of luxury.

dream did not return. typhus soon took george. the wine was never touched.

ROME, ITALY - 255 CE

the sunset was coming to a stutter. dream was already asleep, tuckered out from an evening sipping honied mead and lounging on velvet cushions. his fist was strewn across george’s bare chest, forming a weak and delicate curl. he twitched, sometimes, like a sleeping dog; george couldn’t help but grin down at him -- his love, his dream.

he secured his hand in dream’s and untensed his shoulders. he loved the warmth of the sun, even if he couldn’t distinguish between the varieties of yellows and oranges that dream could. george was sure he could taste them, though, like each and every ray was a splash of fresh lemon juice or a smooth vein of alabaster. cold sun.

george yawned. dream twitched again, this time a hesitant flutter of his eyelashes. he carefully maneuvered his arms so dream could stay sleeping while he got up to check the windows. a spring chill of sorts had been waltzing from house to house in rome lately. he sometimes caught the eye of peasant women, hands folded in cloak pockets like the very _thought_ of contact was contagious. they had bags under their eyes, which dream told him looked like lavender, and which george thought looked like the wine-dark sea. he passed a girl on sunday who sobbed, grief-stricken on the piazza steps, over the body of her newborn son, a victim of the chill. he held dream closer that night.

the chill, as the high priests called it, crept in like long-legged spiders slunk through their webs. it came quickly, in silence, and did not heed prayers. the poor and the rich were equally affected by it. george was grateful that he and dream were favored by the emperor (distant relatives, family friends, the usual) and could afford the better doctors of rome. he took his time splashing his face with mule’s milk, scrubbing his robes with honey, and patting poppy rose petals on his cheeks. he didn’t pay notice to the emaciated beggars outside the spa. he bought his bread from the nearest baker with heavy, calloused hands and ignored the worms coming up from beneath the cobble. he was good. he could afford to be good.

back to the present: the windows were fine. george, however, did not feel fine.

he stumbled to the latrine’s array of toilets and knelt as his stomach churned. fuck. he didn’t think—he didn’t think he could get it. those women, those women were poor. they couldn’t afford his health. he had muscles, he had clean-tasting water, he had someone to care for—he couldn’t be sick. he couldn’t. he couldn’t.

releasing the sick was a humiliating endeavor. he heaved over the benches, his chin bobbing, his mouth growing redder with every spasm. oh, if only dream saw him like this, his somnus, his love, so tiny on the floor.

“george? are you awake?”

a choked response. “i’m fine. go back to sleep.” he thought that maybe if he kept saying it, it would come true.

his words were nothing. dream rushed to his side. the smell of sick was obvious, and he was kindly silent, but still wrapped his arms around his lover.

“dream, don’t—”

“i don’t care. i can’t let you get it. i’d rather die.”

“your life determines the fate of the empire. the war—the war will be lost without you.”

“george, don’t joke.”

a blink. a hiccup.

“i’m dying and you think i would lie? tell me, dream, what are we without war?”

“alive. we are fucking alive, george. the war means nothing if it means i can’t spend another afternoon with you. what has a sword ever done for you? a catapult? i have no doubt that the empire birthed this plague. how else could we have fallen ill? when our leaders tell us we are invincible? our foreign exploits brought this, not sin, not religion, not—not us—and there is no one to blame but bloodshed.”

“i’m beginning to think you should’ve been a poet, not a soldier.”

“oh, shut up. let’s get you to bed.”

dream’s arms were a welcome warmth from the latrine’s blistering tiles. they left the candles on while they slept. their villa was a golden beacon, singular in rome’s skyline. it was past midnight when george woke again. this time the sick came through feverish mumblings and itchy palms. dream calmed him as best he could, drawing a finger up and down his back, pressing his nose into his neck. it wasn’t warm enough. george feared he wouldn’t live to see the summer.

he did. dream did not.

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN - 1350 CE

a knock came on his door. at first, he ignored it; his morning tea was only good when hot, and the fireplace was quickly running out of coal. another knock came, then another, then another, and he finally gave in.

he rose from his moth worn seat, brushing dust from his shirt as he walked. he popped the door open a crack. the chain lock jangled and vague memories of windchimes and flutes came to mind.

“hallo, george? is this the house of george?”

“yes; i am he.”

“good morning, sir.” he took a good look at the messenger. he was a towheaded young man with eyes the color of fresh sage, eyes that drooped slightly at the edges. george was surprised he hadn’t met him before. he carried himself with an aura similar to a startled moose calf, with fingers roped around his leather satchel, and a jaunty little cap taming his hair. despite the man’s comforting affect, george refused to let down his guard; he knew the rumors of a plague, one that could kill within days—hours, even—and one admittedly attractive man would not, could not infiltrate his inner circle.

“what do you want.” the messenger ignored his flat tone and carried on with his report.

“the jarl has commanded that all stockholmers gather by the harbour square by noon today. attendance is obligatory. it regards the arrival of the great death.”

george drew his dark brows together in contempt and sniffed. the messenger smelled like dogshit. (no—the messenger smelled like heather and tulips.) he probably slept in it. (no—he probably bathed more than him.)

“okay. thank you, i suppose.” george prepared to shut the door, but the man stuck out a foot to stop him.

“as i stated before, attendance is obligatory. the death is a pertinent matter this year and sweden cannot afford to take any missteps.”

“okay.”

“have a good day, george.” okay, now he was beginning to feel bad. maybe he didn’t have to be so mean.

“thank you. you as well, erm…”

“dream. call me dream.”

the name pierced his head, left a tang on his tongue. he couldn’t tell why but an urge stirred deep inside to take dream by the hand and follow him in every step. the scent of tulips had filled the room by now. george wanted to hold him. (he wanted to touch him.)

“would you care to come in for tea?”

dream peered around, cautious of the time. “well, i do have to notify your neighbors…”

george swallowed the lump in his throat. “it will only be a cup. you must be cold; i have a fire.”

“if you insist.”

a blush streaked across george’s cheeks as he led him to the kitchen and poured more water in the kettle. he decided he would use his precious honey, the kind he intended to save for the winter, for dream’s tea. maybe even some sugar.

he and dream settled by the hearth and began to chat. they discussed money, politics, sweden, norway, the plague, the world, religion, history, literature, everything, nothing. the minutes soon turned into hours and the sun was shining right above them once they finished their tea and headed outside. dream nearly hit his head on an icicle that hung over george’s porch; he chuckled and spun around, his breath coming out in little puffs of smoke, and immediately slipped on the newly-formed ice. he fell into george’s arms. he stopped laughing.

george took a quick glance around. there was no one else out on the street. it was a working day, with all the men out laboring, and all the women at the market, and all the children sleeping in.

he clutched dream’s back with a tentative hand. he felt the knots, the muscles one by one. his face reddened as he reached dream’s hips, then his neck, then his thighs, then his mouth.

“dream.”

he recalls childhood myths whispered from schoolboy to schoolboy, insinuating strodinn and sansordinn, seidmadr and sex, uttering the transformation of loki from man to woman like a curse. he recalls biting his fist so hard it bled just to rid his mind of men and their mouths. he recalls the past week, when he talked to his mother and she said she’d rather die than live without grandchildren. it all flooded back with no sign of stopping and then—

dream kissed him.

he was clay and dream was his sculptor. he genuinely didn’t think his face could get any redder, but here he was, whining while dream nipped at his mouth, wishing there was a way to share a body with him. he ignored the bells in his head telling him to run and never look back. they only broke away once dream brushed a hand near george’s hips; he startled and released dream from his grip, leaving him to fall back to the icy ground.

“we. we can’t—i can’t—fuck.”

“george, wait—”

a grimace washed over george and he shuddered, voice bubbling with shame, with hurt. “dream. there is no waiting. we can’t do this. i—i can’t do this.”

fuck, he didn’t even know this man until this _morning_. (he felt he had known him all his life.) this morning. (he felt he had known him in every life.)

“george. just… come to the city square today. i promise i’ll find you.”

“i don’t want to find you.” (he was lying.)

dream stepped backwards in an awkward gait, trying not to let the tears show. he didn’t bother waving goodbye. he knew he’d see him later.

the stockholm city meeting was a droll, boring affair. the jarl discussed news of the plague—the black death, as the southern europeans called it—and explained his plan for decontamination. he was clear and precise about which stores would be kept open, which churches would hold service, and how the dead would be transported. george huffed an awkward laugh at the thought of wagons stacked with bodies.

he did not laugh the next week when he passed a cart that smelled of rotting tulips.

TOPEKA, KANSAS - 1918 CE

“dream.”

“fuck…”

“dream.”

“just a second.”

“dream!”

“what!”

george pushed him off the bed. “my shift starts in an hour. we can’t keep waking up like this.”

dream whined. “you don’t have to get up _now_. just. sleep in a bit. won’t you?”

he stared. he _was_ looking particularly pretty today…

“no. now go prep the iron. i need my shirt crisp—no telling if mr. watson will be drunk enough to tell today.”

“okay. oh, and did i tell you? a letter from your mother came today.”

“oh?”

“i left it on the table. don’t let the coffee stain it.”

“alright.”

george pulled on his socks and ran a hand through his hair. they needed gel. and milk, probably. dream wouldn’t stop babbling about this one recipe for chocolate chip cookies. it wasn’t cookie weather, he thought. cookies were best in late spring and early summer, when the lemons were ripening up for lemonade and snow was a distant memory. it wasn’t hot enough. dream kept saying george was making up excuse, but he was being genuine. george liked things the way they were.

“is your back alright?”

“yes, why?”

“um, nothing, there’s just a smudge on the back of your neck. maybe bruises. here, i’ll get it.”

“thank you, darling.”

dream rubbed a towel on his nape. “uh, it’s not coming off. are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“yes. if you want to give me a massage so bad, you can just say so, you know.”

“george.”

he whirled around. “what, why so serious?” dream didn’t match his suggestive smirk.

“nothing. i finished ironing your shirt. please eat breakfast.”

“fine.”

last night was so good. they went out to see a talkie at this gorgeous neo-baroque cinema. dream bought him popcorn and george bought him a coke. even though the place was packed with people, they felt comfortably alone, like they were hidden away in a treehouse—like children—like people without a care in the world besides themselves.

he nibbled a bit of buttered toast and had a sip of tea. dream stood above him, combing stray hair strands from his forehead, and george laid his head against his chest. a tease of domesticity. of marriage, even. (but he did not dare think those thoughts.)

george thought often about marriage. he would buy a new tailored suit with fancy coattails and a silken tie. dream would wear pleated pants and a wooly waistcoat. he would get a bouquet filled with myrtle, larkspur, and green carnations. they would ride off in a horse-drawn buggy, let their hands fall in tandem in the sunset, live and die together. his mother would never again shove an awkward, embarrassed girl in front of him. his father would never again lock him out of the house for spending the night with a boy. in fact, he would never see his parents again—he would curl up with dream on their own couch, in their own house, not some crummy two-room apartment with claustrophobic windows and smoke-ridden wallpaper.

(he did not dare think those thoughts.)

dream was in the restroom when he left. he didn’t bother saying goodbye; he figured he would save him the grief. he never clocked in at work that morning. he would never clock in again.

walking to the station should’ve felt normal. it’d been many years a weekend trek to visit friends and dream’s extended family, a quick breakfast excursion to the city, a calming stroll. kansas was good in that it didn’t rain nearly as much as london and felt mediterranean compared to the old country. it didn’t matter that it was landlocked—water towers were as common a sight to him as fire hydrants or delis. but that day was off-kilter. george tried to rush past fellow pedestrians, trying to avoid acquaintances for fear of ceaseless questioning, but ended up tripping on a curb’s jagged edge in an embarrassing reversal of his usual postured gait. he brushed the gravel from his knees and cursed when he realized his palms were bleeding.

eventually, george made it to the station. he dipped his hat low and raised his scarf to hide the possibility of tears. he wasn’t sure yet whether or not dream’s absence would inspire some gross display of angst in him. for pete’s sake, they were… they were just cohabitators. colleagues. nobody knew the things he felt for him. the first time they made pancakes together. the first time they kissed. the first time he knew, undeniably, that he was in love. he tugged his scarf once more and headed in.

the train was thick with its own smoke. george could hardly breathe as he took his seat across from a man with a bristly mustache and a walking cane. he greeted him with a detached smile.

“taken?”

“no, be my guest.”

george clasped his hands together and prayed for the ride to be short. as if philadelphia was an hour away and not eight. as if he could bear any time spent away from dream.

“so, where’re ya headed?”

“philly. and you?”

“boston. business.”

“ah.”

“yer accent—are ya from england? how’dya end up here?”

“oh, you know. work and everything.”

“a boy like you, ya seem strong. i’m surprised yer not still stationed in europe.”

“no. didn’t make the draft. back injury.”

“my condolences. any family here?”

“yes. you could say that.”

the refreshment cart came around at this point. george was grateful for any interruption to the older man’s interrogations. he wanted to swallow, but couldn’t.

“excuse me,” he asked the server, “is there any way to open a window in here? the smoke is a bit much.”

the server gave him a strange look. “there’s no fumes here. do you smell anything, sir?”

the older man shook his head no.

“i can open a window if you want, but if you’re having trouble breathing, maybe you…”

george paused. fuck. the breathing. the bruises. the influenza. of course. of fucking course.

he could’ve given it to dream. he could’ve given it to the mother and child who passed him on the street that morning. he could be giving it to this man right now. fuck. he kept blinking, trying to reset his mind, scrub the malaise from his memory.

a voice started on the radio. “… the chief organizer of pennsylvania’s department of health will speak with us now.”

“hello, edward martin, secretary of every pennsylvania resident’s personal health here. there is no such thing as a so-called pandemic at the moment. there is absolutely no trace of influenza anywhere near our borders. if you hear someone spreading misinformation about the status of pennsylvania’s health, please report them to my office. remember, our focus right now should be on the war—not on make-believe sickness!”

the older man grimaced. “doesn’t seem good for you, fellow. i pray that ya heal quickly.” he nodded towards the waiter, who immediately left the car to find a doctor on board.

george didn’t live to reach philly.

LONDON, ENGLAND - 2021 CE

george leapt onto his bed and unlocked his phone with one quick motion. it was nearly midnight, he had just finished his shift, and if he squinted, he could see the stars from his bedroom window. the facetime call began and he settled into his bed.

“george?”

“dream!”

there was a pause, a moment of pure giddiness. the two couldn’t stop grinning. george would never get tired of seeing dream’s eyes crease with joy; dream would never get tired of seeing george’s mouth curl up in the most handsome way, like he was laughing at a joke just between them.

“i can’t wait to see you.”

“me too.”

“the tickets are all set, right?”

“yup.”

george was finally understanding what all those love stories meant when they talked about swelling hearts and butterflies. it wasn’t quite butterflies—it was the cozy hum of bees, it was sitting as close as possible to a campfire and letting the warmth tickle his cheeks, it was the sound of his pulse coursing from ear to ear.

they weren’t official yet. there were sparks, of course, but everything was still new to them, and they hadn’t really acknowledged the shared feelings between them. each facetime felt like a first date.

“just so you know, i’m not letting you wear cargo shorts to mallorca. it simply can’t happen.”

“george, do you really think that low of me? you really think i would waste a good pair of cargo shorts on some vacation?”

“it’s not just _some vacation_ , you prick.”

“what’re you gonna do? search my luggage? make me take them off? listen, i know europe is more lax on public nudity, but you guys do have laws, don’t you?”

“you’re such a bully. i’m merely informing you that i will not be spending my free time hanging out with a barbeque-obsessed white dad trapped in a twenty-year-old’s body.”

“for shame. you’re not much better on the fashion side, george. i will not be spending my precious, well-earned leisure time hanging out with a man who doesn’t shower more than once a month.”

“shut up!”

they collapsed into laughter. dream folded his blanket over his mouth so george couldn’t see how wide he was grinning. george had a keen eye, though, and called him out:

“c’mon. show me that smile.” his mouth became dry. what?

“what did you say?”

“show me that smile. dream, you’re such a scaredy-cat. what, do you think your teeth are yellow? you think i won’t smile back?”

george’s eyes were glittering; he bit his lip. “dream.”

he couldn’t respond. like, he couldn’t physically speak. the conversation had tensed and of course his dumb vocal cords couldn’t work.

“why are you ignoring me?” he kept shooting him that perfect smile. fuck, he was so pretty.

“but what happens if you don’t smile back?”

george paused at this.

“i’d do anything for you, dream.” a blink. “i’d do more than smile back. i will travel to the ends of the earth for you. i think… i think you’re the love of my life.”

“…”

“are… are you crying?”

“shut up. my mom is cutting onions. in the other room. i swear.”

george started laughing again. “you’re actually crying! dream is crying over a boy. oh em gee, i have to tell quackity about this.”

“no! no. please. please, don’t.”

“i’m only joking. like i said, dream, i’d do anything for you.”

he slowly lowered his blankets. try as he might, he couldn’t fight the smile from creeping up, tugging both sides of his mouth from ear to ear.

“i think you’re the love of my life, too, george. and maybe. um. more than this life. i think we’re, like, predestined to be soulmates in every life we live. if reincarnation exists, i think i’d be in love with you every single time. even… even if we weren’t together, i think i’d find a way to love you.”

“…”

“now _you’re_ the one crying!”

“shut up! ugh, you’re so annoying, dream.” even through the webcam, he could see the sparks fly. it was cliché, he knew, but he swore his heart had never been that loud before—had never filled up the space between his ears, had never pounded like a drum the size of a planet, had never torn him up this much before.

“y’know, maybe mallorca can wait.”

“huh?”

george opened a new tab, still grinning.

“how much are tickets to miami international airport?”

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading omg @__@ this took me rlyyyy long to write cuz i kept getting writers block but ckgc helped me thru it ! shoutout especially to hanna and mari for early proofreading <333 my besties always


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